


Ritual

by Augustus



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dark, F/M, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 22:39:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8465656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augustus/pseuds/Augustus
Summary: Morrigan knows just how the ritual will go. Morrigan is wrong.





	

Morrigan knows just how the ritual will go. It’s not only the magic; that is as natural as breath and pulse. It is what she was raised for, what she grew with as plaything and companion and light. The sex, too, is predictable. She has been using men for years, to fuel her magic and to warm her body on the coldest Wilds nights. Mostly, it is forgettable. A few minutes of friction and sweat and the puff of hot breath against her face. When it’s good, she feels pleasure. It’s like holding a ball of fire in her palm and letting the heat flood her skin. But it’s rarely good. Usually, it is no less a chore than picking herbs or pounding them into paste.

With Alistair, it will be a chore. He was too long in the Chantry and his fumblings with the Warden are loving but swift. And he hates Morrigan. Hates her even more for this. He thinks her heartless, but Morrigan burns with her own dark flames. They will save the Warden, even if Morrigan has to use her magic to draw from him what she needs. It is a skill she learned at a too-young age, coached by Flemeth and wet with blood and fear. There is power in creation, she knows, power in sex and pain and death. She will do what she has to and so will he, because there is no other way.

Yes, Morrigan knows exactly how it will happen. But, as it turns out, she is wrong.

Alistair fists her hair and drags her head back so that her lips curl from her teeth with a hiss of surprise. ‘I will never forgive you,’ he says, ‘and neither will she,’ but then his mouth grazes Morrigan’s jaw and his free hand cups her breast. He is rough, too rough, but she refuses to pull away, holding his gaze as he thumbs her nipple and mirroring his glare. He releases her hair and she has a moment to breathe before he pulls her into a hard-lipped kiss. His breath is warm on her cheek but his eyes are cold and Morrigan understands, then, that he will break her just as she is breaking him, just as they are both breaking the Warden together.

He flips them so that he is above her, pinning her to the mattress and marking her neck with his teeth. She can feel him hard against her thigh as he palms her breasts, his sword-calloused skin rasping over the sensitive peaks of her nipples and sending arrows of pleasurepain down to her groin. She keeps the words of the ritual in her mind, a litany of magic to counter the weight of Alistair’s body and the thick smell of sweat and sex. His hands slide over her flesh, mapping the differences between her and the Warden, and his fingers press deep within her, burning and twisting and making her gasp.

She reaches for him, but Alistair pulls away, his fingers wet on her thigh. ‘I can’t stand to look at you,’ he says, but he kisses her before he rolls her over, his tongue pushing between clenched teeth. He enters her without warning, his cock thick and blunt and, for a moment, the words fall from her head and all she can do is curl her fingers into fists. It is not loving, nowhere near it, but it is still swift. He thrusts without rhythm, hands clutching her hips so hard she can already feel the bruises, and the movement causes her breasts to rub against the sheets, a flare of pain and heat. And then he stiffens above her and the words come back to her as his jagged movements cease. She draws the lifeforce deep within her, ignoring the ache of her joints and the graze of raw skin, and feels a sparking as the magic takes hold.

Alistair doesn’t look at her as she dresses. ‘I’m not,’ he says, ‘that is, I wouldn’t. Not with her, I mean. Never. ’

‘I know,’ Morrigan says, but later she will wonder, as she presses a poultice to the tooth wounds upon her neck.

Always, she will wonder. She has been wrong before, you see.


End file.
